20. Quinn #2
But there's something in his tone—firm, commanding—that makes my body obey even when my mind wants to rebel. I force myself to stop moving, though I'm trembling with the effort.
"Good girl." The words are a rumble against my throat.
And then his hands are moving.
They slide from my hair to the hem of my shirt, and before I can process what's happening, he's pulling it over my head.
The barn air hits my bare skin—cool despite the Texas heat outside—and my nipples pebble against the lace of my bra.
Logan's gaze drops, and I watch his blue eyes darken, the pupil swallowing the iris.
"Christ." The word is reverent, almost prayerful.
His hands are everywhere—skimming along my collarbones, tracing the edge of my bra, sliding down my ribs. Each touch leaves a trail of fire in its wake. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive, every nerve ending screaming for more.
He reaches behind me, and with a flick of his fingers, my bra falls away. I should feel exposed—standing half-naked in a dusty barn while a man I barely know looks at me like he wants to devour me. Instead, I feel... seen. Wanted in a way that has nothing to do with my last name or my bank account.
Logan's mouth follows his hands.
He presses a kiss to my sternum, then another to the swell of my left breast. His stubble scrapes against my tender skin, the slight abrasion making me arch into him. I want his mouth on my nipple—I want it so badly I can taste it—but he's not giving me what I want. Not yet.
Instead, he trails open-mouthed kisses around my breast, circling closer and closer to the center without ever touching it. I'm making sounds now—small, needy whimpers that I'd be embarrassed about if I had any blood left in my brain.
"Logan, please."
He hums against my skin, the vibration making me shudder. "Please what?"
"You know what."
"I want to hear you say it."
His tongue flicks out, just barely grazing the puckered edge of my areola. My back bows off the wall, a broken moan tearing from my throat.
"Your mouth," I gasp. "I want your mouth on me."
"Where?"
"Bastard."
His chuckle is warm against my breast. Then, finally—finally—his lips close over my nipple.
The sensation is overwhelming. He sucks hard, drawing the sensitive flesh deep into his mouth, and I cry out.
My hands fly to his hair, gripping the tousled dark blonde waves, holding him against me.
He alternates between sucking and licking—long, slow pulls of his mouth followed by quick flicks of his tongue that send sparks shooting down my spine.
"God, Logan—"
He releases my nipple with a wet pop, then turns his attention to the other one.
This time, he's rougher. His teeth graze the swollen peak before his tongue soothes the sting.
I'm panting now, my chest heaving, my hips grinding against nothing because he's shifted his weight and I've lost contact with that hard ridge in his jeans.
"Please," I beg again. I'm not above begging anymore. "I need—"
"I know what you need." His voice is rough, strained. The controlled cowboy is losing some of his composure, and the sight of it—knowing I'm the one doing this to him—makes me even wetter.
His hand skims down my stomach, fingers tracing the line of my abs. I've always been slender but strong, and I feel his appreciation in the way he lingers over each defined muscle. When he reaches the waistband of my jeans, he pauses.
I hold my breath.
One button. That's all it takes. His fingers make quick work of it, then the zipper, and the sound is impossibly loud in the quiet barn. My jeans loosen around my hips, and his hand slides lower, under the denim, into my panties.
The first touch of his fingers against my core makes me jerk. I'm soaked—drenched, really—and his fingers glide through my slickness with obscene ease. He traces the length of my slit, from my opening to my clit and back again, spreading my wetness everywhere.
"Fuck, Quinn." His voice is strained, almost pained. "You're so wet for me."
"I've been wet since you kissed me in the—"
His thumb finds my clit, and the rest of my sentence dissolves into a moan. He circles the swollen bud with maddening slowness, not quite giving me enough pressure, keeping me on edge. My hips buck, trying to increase the friction, but his other hand presses against my hip, holding me still.
"Uh-uh." The sound is soft, teasing. "My pace, remember?"
I want to argue. I want to demand that he touch me harder, faster, give me what I need. But his thumb is still circling, and each rotation sends another wave of pleasure crashing through me, and I can't form words anymore.
He slides one finger down, pressing at my entrance. I'm so wet that he meets no resistance, but he doesn't push inside. Not yet. He just holds there, letting me feel the promise of it, while his thumb continues its relentless circling.
"Tell me you want it."
"I want it." The words are barely a whisper.
"Tell me you need it."
"I need it. Logan, please, I need—"
He plunges two fingers inside me.
The stretch is exquisite. My inner walls clench around him, drawing him deeper, and he groans against my neck. His fingers are long and calloused—ranch-work hands, rough in all the right ways—and I can feel every ridge and callus as he starts to move.
He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside me—the one that makes my vision go white at the edges—and rubs. At the same time, his thumb presses harder against my clit, no longer teasing but demanding.
"Logan!" His name rips from my throat.
"That's it." His voice is hot against my ear. "Let go, Quinn. I've got you."
He increases the pace, his fingers fucking me with deep, sure strokes. Each thrust pushes me higher, winds the tension in my core tighter. I can feel my orgasm building—a coiled spring ready to snap—but I'm hovering right at the edge, unable to tip over.
"More," I gasp. "Please, more."
He adds a third finger, stretching me wider, and the slight burn is exactly what I need. His thumb circles my clit faster, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside me. The wet, obscene sounds of his hand moving in my slick pussy fill the barn, mixing with my moans and his harsh breathing.
"I'm close," I whimper. "Logan, I'm so close—"
"I know, darlin'." His teeth graze my earlobe. "Come for me. Let me feel you."
His fingers curl again, pressing hard against that spot, and his thumb flicks my clit one final time.
The orgasm hits me like a thunderbolt. My whole body seizes, back arching off the wall, as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me. I'm crying out—his name, maybe, or just wordless sounds—and my pussy is clenching rhythmically around his fingers, drawing every last tremor of sensation.
He doesn't stop. His fingers keep moving, slower now, gentling me through the aftershocks. Each small movement sends another ripple of pleasure through my oversensitive body, and I'm trembling, gasping, completely undone.
"That's it," he murmurs against my temple. "That's my girl."
His girl. The words should make me bristle—I'm not anyone's girl, not anymore—but right now, in this moment, they just make me feel... safe. Protected. Like he's claiming me in a way that has nothing to do with possession and everything to do with devotion.
Slowly, the tremors subside. My breathing steadies. The world comes back into focus—the smell of hay, the warmth of the barn, the solid presence of Logan's body against mine.
He withdraws his fingers gently, and I whimper at the loss. His hand cups my pussy one more time, a possessive gesture that makes my spent muscles clench in response. Then he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, his blue eyes never leaving mine.
"Sweet," he says. "Like honey in July."
My face flushes. I've just come harder than I have in years, possibly ever, and this man is licking his fingers like I'm the best thing he's ever tasted.
He's still hard. I can feel his cock pressing against my hip, still trapped behind his zipper. The realization sparks something in me—need, yes, but also a desperate urge to reciprocate. To make him feel even a fraction of what he just made me feel.
My thighs still tremble, the aftershocks of that orgasm rippling through me like distant thunder. Logan's fingers glisten with my release, and the sight of him bringing them to his lips, tasting me with that slow, deliberate drag of his tongue—something snaps inside my chest.
My turn.
I surge forward, hands flat against his chest, and shove him back. He hits the loft wall with a solid thud, hay dust puffing around his shoulders like a halo made of barn dirt. His blue eyes widen—just for a heartbeat—before that cocky half-smile curves his mouth.
"Quinn—"
"Shut up." My fingers find his belt buckle, yanking the leather free of the clasp with a sharp metallic sound. "You think you get to take your time with me and walk away unfinished?"
His breath catches when I pop the button of his jeans. The zipper follows, teeth parting one by one until I can shove the denim down his hips. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already slick at the tip—and my mouth waters at the sight of him.
I wrap my hand around the base, feeling him pulse against my palm. He's hot and hard, the skin velvet-soft over steel. Logan's head drops back against the rough wooden wall, throat exposed, and I watch the tendons in his neck strain as I give him one slow stroke.
"Fuck." The word comes out rough, scraped raw.
I drop to my knees on the hay-strewn floor. The dry stalks prickle against my skin, but I don't care. I lean in, breath ghosting over the head of his cock, and flick my tongue across that glistening bead of moisture. Salt and musk burst across my taste buds—Logan's essence, pure and unfiltered.
His hands find my hair, fingers tangling in the beachy waves, not pushing—just holding. Anchoring himself.